Static

A friend of mine recently introduced me to YeahWrite, a community dedicated to the craft of writing. While exploring their website, I discovered a section called Super Challenge. I was intrigued! Turns out, this group puts on a writing contest every quarter. Winners receive fun prizes, and even better, street cred for winning a writing contest! Entrants have 48 hours to write on a specific prompt that is sent to them by email when the clock chimes 7 PM on a Friday, and must be completed by 7 PM on Sunday. I decided to do it, and to my absolute astonishment, I won my first round! Since Round 1 is now officially over, I am able to post my essay to my blog. I would be honored if you read my mostly-true, essay. Please see below for the prompt and following response. And if you’re curious, I just finished the second and final round of Super Challenge. I’ll be sure to let you know the results when I get them! Wish me luck.

Reader, I have one request. This is a very raw and, again, mostly-true essay, and even though it talks about painful things in my recent past, this writing is about ME and not the other person. Writing this helped ME get through my pain to a more peaceful state of mind. I know you will probably have opinions about what you read, but please remember that we are all human and I’m sharing this with a tiny bit of fear in my heart about judgments. I truly appreciate your discretion and compassion as you read, and I ask that you hold space in your heart for the beauty of the pain that we as humans endure as part of our growth.

Love it or hate it, you’ve probably slept alone at some point in your life. Tell us about it. Persuade us that it’s the best, or the worst, way to sleep. Tell us a mostly-true story about the first time you slept alone after moving in with your partner. See where the prompt takes you!

YeahWrite Super Challenge #23, Round 1 Essay

Sheets can feel deliciously tranquil when they’re fresh and haven’t been mussed up by the complexities of love, resentment, or anger.

I was putting new sheets on the bed by myself for the first time in four years. I should have been thrilled with the smell of crisp Egyptian cotton and the opportunity to spread my limbs starfish-style, but I knew feeling happy again wouldn’t be that easy. Getting the courage to move to the middle of the mattress would mean admitting he wasn’t coming back.

Truthfully, the bed hadn’t been all that comfortable when I’d shared it with Miguel. We were both hot sleepers, and a queen size just didn’t give us the freedom to separate when we needed to, but we couldn’t afford the king we so desperately wanted. I actually didn’t mind it, considering that I thought we were so giddy in lust with each other that we didn’t want to stop touching even for a moment, much less eight hours.

Laundry was one of my chores. I began working from home because of the pandemic, so it just made sense for me to do it while attempting to get a few extra steps in during the work day. Miguel was in sales and had to continue to go into the office every day, and yet still made it a big deal if I didn’t fold his t-shirts the way he liked.

You’re lucky I’m doing your laundry at all, I would mutter to myself as I folded the T-shirts the same way I’d done it for the last 20 years. But tonight, neither one of us were lucky. As per usual, I dumped the clean load on our bed and started rescuing underwear and socks from staticky t-shirts. I pulled a pair of what I thought were strangely feminine boxer briefs away from a ripped-up Metallica tee that he refused to get rid of, and placed both on his side of the bed.

Later, when he returned from his office and settled onto the couch, he pulled me close to him and kissed me. A static Pop! exploded between our lips and we both exclaimed before blaming each other for the shock.

“You’re wearing wool socks!” I huffed.

“Well, you practically shuffled all the way over here!” He volleyed back.

Around 10:30 PM, we hauled ourselves upstairs. He glanced at the clothes on the bed and began putting them away. He picked up the underwear I’d blinked at earlier, and threw them on my side without a word.

In the one second that it took those women’s boyshorts to fly through the air and land on my side of the bed, I’d figured it out. Instantly I knew who they belonged to and when it had happened. And clearly, it had happened in my bed. Our bed.

The bed that I am now sleeping in alone.

Did you know that static electricity happens when positive and negative charges aren’t balanced? When an object has extra electrons, it has a negative charge that causes a spark, and in this case, that spark blew up our life together.

Waves of rage ran furiously through my body the first few nights I slept by myself. I punched the mattress that had been witness to the destruction he had caused. I cried into the pillow he’d bought me for Christmas. I refused to look at his side, much less touch it.

I had to force my body to stretch out, and eventually started to wiggle my way towards the middle. There were many nights that my heart would infiltrate my brain, making me think I was being disloyal to the other side of the bed, and so I would straighten up and go back to my side. One night, though, I woke up around midnight in what felt like a death match with an octopus, desperately needing to pee. I struggled with the blankets, trying to grasp my edge of the bed so I could escape and stumble down the hall to relieve myself. It felt like it took forever.

When I got back into my bedroom, the covers looked as tormented as I felt. Sheets had been heaved aside in my quest to get to the bathroom; blankets had twisted into one another. There was a street lamp just outside my window, and the glow it gave off allowed me just enough visibility to see that I had completely torn up my bed for no reason. I’d wiggled and writhed to get out of the bed on my own side. I hadn’t even given it the thought that I could have just slipped out on his side and made my night a whole lot easier.

After that realization, the migration began. Those next few nights, I left the bed on whatever side I wanted, and my midnight pee felt like a victory.

It was a victory I needed.

I have not let myself grieve to the point of being at peace. I am still in trauma state. My head and heart worked together long enough to end the relationship and kick him out, but I still haven’t processed everything that led to the explosion of my relationship. What I do know is that I can’t remain static. I have the whole bed, and the whole world, in front of me.

Completion

I drove by his workplace after an exhilarating dance class; it’s unavoidable when travelling to and from the industrial East side of the city. One side of the entire building is floor-to-ceiling glass, and without wanting to, I reflexively looked in as my car stopped at the red light. There he was, sitting at a desk scrolling on his phone, wearing the jacket I’d wrapped around myself more than once while snuggling into his protective arms. If I hadn’t been aware of the things he’d done to hurt me, this would have been a welcome opportunity: I used to relish this drive-by scenario, honking and waving madly to get his attention, giggling to myself and hopefully embarrassing him in the process. That evening, it just made me sad. And then I got mad because I was sad.

I’m supposed to be learning about the grief process, healing, starting over fresh, etc. What I’m learning is that it hurts in waves. Most of the time I’m getting through my day managing my emotions fairly well, and then a memory makes me laugh, or makes me so angry that I start crying gigantic crocodile tears that just won’t go away. And I want them to disappear, I want the pain to vanish. But for some reason, the tears are oddly comforting, like a sad song I’ve listened to dozens of times or a campfire that I let myself get lost in. Do you know what I mean? Why are these tears so warm and inviting while they sting my cheeks at the same time?

I find pieces of him all over the house. I’ve been collecting them for some full moon exorcism, I suppose… Or I’m finding it hard to completely disconnect, if I have to tell the truth. But I am aware that with this collection of his things, I must perform a completion and thus welcome in a new beginning. So, to the Snuggle Dome memorabilia, I’m saying goodbye, respectfully but firmly.

As 2022 opens it arms anew, I will participate fully. Memories, new ones that are fresh and sparkling and beautiful—these are what will drive me in 2022. A whim trip to Kauai? Don’t mind if I do! Snowshoeing with fellow goddesses? Yes please! Should I write a novel and tell everyone about it so that I’ll stay accountable? Why the hell not!? I can do whatever I set my mind to, and that includes loving my imperfect self, and allowing myself the time to heal.

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I won’t leave, if that’s what you were frightened of.

I just want to move with you.

My back has carried several lifetimes of heartache, but I’d take it off your shoulders first, if I could.

I don’t know what it feels like from the bones, but I know pain. I recognize the half-mast eyelids, heavy from words of masters.

Monsters.

You’ve sewn in hair from Brazilian slave drivers’ ancestors; how does that feel?

Does it make you want to dance?

Do you look at each strand and sob from your diaphragm?

Do you feel the pulse of the motherland as you raise your clenched hand?

Would you let me fall in step beside you, chins pushed up from both our chests?

Do you want me to play with your shadows, slip in and out between them, like the sun?

Groove to voodoo beats—or is that wrong?

We could dance.

We could just be.

You can tell me.

I won’t leave.

In the Flow

This post is NOT about Covid, but I can’t easily go into it without at least acknowledging the massive event that has touched most human beings in some way. The last 10 weeks of quarantine have been what anyone could easily call a roller coaster. Some may call it a monsoon, others a slight dipping of the tide, and still others don’t know which end is up currently. For me it has been all of these things, changing from minute to minute, never knowing when to throw the anchor to just stop and breathe, but always having a solid support in my partner Boo Bear, and the rest of my community.

My first week of unemployment. Surprisingly, this was not due to Covid; my contract at Nike had been extended, which was a happy bonus during the dregs of the pandemic, and then it was finally time to end. So I’d been saving money here and there, and was extremely grateful for the stimulus check, though in Portland it won’t go far. Still, I’m grateful for any help. Oregon also sent us a kicker from 2018 in our taxes this year, so I threw up a silent hallelujah when I saw that slide into my bank account.

The last time I was unemployed, it came as the biggest shock of my life. I had worked at my previous company for 14 years. I was about to hit the big 15th anniversary. I was inspired by how much my role had evolved and was excited for the changes and fresh blood entering the company. Yet I trusted my new department head too quickly. She waited the requisite 45 days and then booted all but 2 of us in order to bring in her own soldiers. It was devastating. This story is not unique, but it had never happened to me. I was angry for months. I grieved for many things during that time. The expectations of job security, the skills I thought would see me through the next phase of my career, the trust I had blindly put into the department leader. I had expressed my interest in being the new communications editor, and we had scheduled an interview for the day after my layoff. Unbeknownst to me, she had never intended on keeping that date.

As hurt as I felt, and as much as I couldn’t believe that this was supposed to be part of my journey, it led me to a whole new understanding of what a job could be. Seven months later, I found myself sitting behind a desk on the campus of one of the largest sports apparel companies in the world, as an editor. An editor! The position I had wanted at a small insurance firm had morphed into this whole new me, refining copy that thousands of people would see.

13 months and what feels like a lifetime later, I am unemployed once again, this time on my terms. I started my first day of freedom doing what I do most Saturdays since the quarantine started: working out with my best friend over a video meeting app. If you haven’t tried this yet with those you love who are far away (or those you can’t see across town because we’re in lock down), you MUST. Our workout of choice is the 305 Fitness Saturday morning livestream. It’s all about infectious positivity, practicing fun (and sometimes dorky) dance moves, and toning our muscles. I highly recommend trying this or another video workout while you’re staying safe at home.

305 Fitness founder Sadie | photo courtesy of samuelallenscott.net/

I received a sweet text minutes after finishing my workout: a picture of my copy director’s adorable toddler holding a basket of goodies, and the words, “We’re here!” I stepped outside to see my amazing director, S, and her son standing several feet away, the basket at my feet. She explained that it was full of goodies from herself and my coworkers to wish me a happy “vacation.” As I relayed this story later to a friend, she remarked, “You’d better go back and thank her AGAIN, because leaders like this are not common.” #grateful

After I’d cleaned up my sweaty body, it was time for a video chat with my cousin, K. Sometimes I refer to her as my niece because she is 16 and I’ve watched her grow since she was a baby, but our family tree has many branches and many cousins, so at this point, we just call each other cuzzies. We talked about her buying a car soon and hopefully visiting in person when the pandemic dies down.

A trip to the grocery store (Thank you for your care towards your employees and customers, Whole Foods!) turned into an incredible dinner made by yours truly. Boo Bear enjoyed the hell out of it, and since he had made it home on time, which is not always the case in his industry, we got to enjoy a night on the couch watching a Marvel movie without falling asleep. We’re watching them in chronological order, just for funsies. I’ve never watched any Marvel movies before this and I’m really enjoying them! Let me know if you want the chronological list, and I’ll send it your way!

I know not every day will be this awesome, but starting off this new part of my journey with gratitude in my heart for my community and with a positive outlook makes a huge difference. I don’t know what will happen in the next few months, but I’m going to try to remember to take it one step at a time and embrace the flow.

Imagine If…

If I could imagine what life may have looked like, had I not taken this particular journey, I would ask—why did I choose this life? Some people believe that our souls choose this particular body in this particular time and place before we become a fetus, before we are born into this world. Given a true choice, wouldn’t I naturally opt for a thinner body with medium size breasts and straight teeth?
Erin Pavlina makes these assertions:

When you are in the ether you remember that you are a part of consciousness and that you are being sent out into the world to experience, learn, and grow.  You know that physical life is temporary, and that the pain and adversity you face as a physical being is but a moment in your existence.  Why do people choose to enter a life that is filled with pain and torment?  Because from the perspective of the ether, any pain or adversity is but a blip of discomfort in the grand scheme of things.  It’s like asking if you are willing to suffer a paper cut in order to gain vast wisdom and knowledge and tremendous personal growth.

In my mind, I imagine it like a rope swing. I think about the journey that my roller coaster self-esteem-driven body has taken me on, and I see myself considering the options of taking another bite—would I let out a barbaric yawp into the ether and fly into the wild earth? Or would I stay safe—take another bite and let myself sink further into my comfort zone?
If I’d let go of the rope and created a life for myself, full of lean, athletic bodies, popularity contests, and a virginity that withered well before my twenties, who would I be?
Would I have been that vulnerable woman who said yes to the unknown? Would I have met a man in college and stayed in the Midwest? Would I be a mother? Would I tuck my children into their beds at night, kissing their soft cheeks, brushing hair from sweaty foreheads, shushing their protests, then closing the door silently behind me in sweet relief of another day without tragedy?
Would my husband and I become so used to our mundane life that we approach our fifties without a hint of sexual desire? Or would one of us be struck with a yearning so great that we must express or explode—and because the other is our best friend, we must confess—that the tumble-dry cycle of our sex life simply isn’t enough?
Would we then go to a series of sexual enlightenment workshops, awkward at first because this is all new, and sometimes the worn-in feeling of familiarity is much preferred over the fear of the unknown, to find later that we have both fallen in love with our instructor (And who wouldn’t? They are all at once sensual, kinky, loving, torturous, and safe.), who then somehow convinces us that this is completely normal and is actually a reflection of our renewed lust for each other?
Would we then leap back into our home life with gusto and a plethora of spontaneous sex—in closets when the children are in twilight sleep, on the balcony where our neighbors just might see, or with a voracious interest in play toys of all kinds?
Would I, as I am inclined to do, reflect earnestly in my journal, each paragraph a rabbit hole for the next great big blank page?
Oh white space, you are inviting. You tease with your crisp cleanness and your ample availability. You offer your lush white bosom as a landing pad for a sprinkle of thoughts, then a deluge, then a monsoon of words and creativity. I am wet with your weather. Consume me, let me soil your innocence with my wisdom as well as my curiosity, for it is that which completes the circle in the end.
Imagine if…

Women's March on Washington: Portland Style

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Courtesy of Stefan Dietz via Flickr


Yesterday, I was one of those who was going to stay away from the crowds of the Women’s March in downtown Portland. I am all for marches and protests, especially peaceful ones, but I also suffer from some anxiety surrounding these types of events. It’s not claustrophobia, but it does in a sense carry some of those connotations. To a certain extent, if I’m being truly honest here, I also kind of just didn’t want to be bothered. Bothered to go out into a cold, rainy day. To try and find a bathroom where the line isn’t half a mile long. To make sure I didn’t get pepper sprayed or get caught up in violence. To be on my feet all day.
My friend Claudia had stayed the night with me and she was getting ready for the March while I puttered around the kitchen, sorting out my day. She said, Why aren’t you going again? I said, Well, I have some things to do, and then an appointment, and…yeah. Kinda shaky excuses. Claudia, being one of my dearest friends, looked me in the eye and replied,

What will you say when future generations ask you if you were at the Women’s March on January 21, 2017? I had a hair appointment, the traffic was bad? I’m gonna say I joined thousands in a beautiful day of solidarity.

Well that arrow hit its target right on the nose. I packed my backpack with a hastened clump of waterproof clothing, snacks, hydration, wet wipes, and we were off to catch the bus. The first one flew by our stop, packed front to back with passengers. The collective groaning of a dozen people let loose on cue. Luckily, I live by a frequent service stop with several bus lines, so about seven minutes later another one came and it was only about half full. Huzzah!

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Ready to roll out!


We got off the bus and headed to the spot where we were meeting other marchers. Claudia and I hadn’t exactly planned our entrance very well, and since we were already running late, had expected we’d just grab some food somewhere and take it with us to the march. Except every quick/fast service restaurant was packed with protesters. And it was pouring rain, so eating outside wouldn’t be as effortless as we had imagined in our head. And even if we did manage to eat our food without first soaking it in Portland’s famous “weather au jus,” we were standing butt-to-butt, and, since I’m so short, I’d most likely be eating a burrito to the tune of someone’s accidental elbow throw. That just didn’t sound fun to me. So Claudia and I broke off from the group to get something solid in our stomachs a little farther out, with the intention that we would meet up with the other ladies again later. We went to Thirsty Lion, since it’s huge inside and they are usually prepared for crowds. The restaurant was quite full, but we got seated right away. Our waitress was super! She was quick during a very busy time, answered our questions expertly, and best of all, helped us in a tiny way that had a huge impact. I asked her if she had two trash bags that we could have. At first she didn’t understand. I explained the beauty of how trash bags make fantastic makeshift raincoats! In the short half hour or so we’d been outside, Claudia and I were already partially soaked and it was not looking like it would let up any time soon. She came back with two industrial trash bags. They were gigantic—and perfect! We set up our new look. Rip a neck hole, two arm holes, help your neighbor put it up and over the her backpack, and there you go! We looked like two drowned rats with hump backs! Trés chic!
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I didn’t know what to expect when we re-entered the crowd. I know the protests the night before had drawn all sorts of agendas, both peaceful and a little less so. There were flash-bang devices discharged, pepper spray dispensed, and a lot of anger spread out over the city, held mostly at bay by the Portland Police. I protested in the past during the Iraq War. Back then the police I experienced were much different. Instead of trying to prevent conflicts from arising and helping to keep the protests contained, they would bait protesters into angry reactions, thereby enabling them to “legally” detain protesters. I’m not sure when they beefed up their training on civil unrest events, but I have to hand it to them—they have recently done a much better job overseeing the crowds. (This is just my opinion. Feel free to comment below if your experience has been different.) Instead of putting on a show as tyrannical monoliths of punishment, they displayed their humanity. Cops with pink pussy hats on waved us on. Most of them smiled broadly at us as we walked by. I tried to thank as many as I could, because let’s face it, no matter how you feel personally about the police, you must understand that theirs is a tough job.
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The energy was palpable. Everyone there was a cousin of the spirit! We laughed maniacally in the rain, danced in the sloppy mud mosh pit, shouted chants of positivity, squished butt-to-butt with our new friends, giggled at the amazing creativity of the signs, and most of all, came together with the intention of unity.
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When the younger generation asks me where I was on January 21, 2017, I’ll tell them I was right there alongside the most beautiful, diverse, and loving group of people I have ever known.

Anger

I am FURIOUS with my neighbor!! She raises an ire in me that is incredibly hard to control. She spits venomous words at me and baits me to engage in a senseless fight that basically consists of her accusing me of sleeping with her boyfriend because I strut (her words) back and forth in front of their apartment, encouraging him to admire me like a prize pony. (According to her, my strutting occurs when I am grabbing my laundry from the basement—in my sweatpants and pony tail. I must look damn fine in those sweatpants! Why do I even bother putting on dresses if ya’ll really like the sweatpants??)
For the record, I am most definitely not sleeping with or at all interested in her partner. I tell myself I won’t take the bait and return fire. I try to convince myself I am in control of those faculties that tell me to just WALK AWAY. But every time she confronts me (four and counting), I get this urge to try and convince her I am a good woman, a good person… And the thing is, it really doesn’t matter! What’s she going to do, nominate me for the Nobel Peace Prize after she realizes her horrible and embarrassing mistake? Not likely!
Her anger isn’t about me. In fact, I’m relatively certain she knows I’m not actually sleeping with her boyfriend. It’s about what is inside her heart that makes her lash out at a perfect stranger. She is obviously hurting. Even before our feud started, she never had a friendly word for any of her neighbors. She always has a grimace on her face. It makes me sad for her. Not so sad that I don’t deliver several choice words in the privacy of my home after a confrontation, though. I let my blood rise to a boil and I vent for far too long to my girlfriends about it. It runs over and over like a movie in front of my eyes, and I can’t stop it.
For me, anger takes on two costume changes. One I see as something negative, dark. The dark side is the one that makes my veins bulge out of my neck, makes my head ache and my fists clench. I feel the sweat form at my temples and a slow burn starts at my crown and moves into my chest. It makes me feel like I have lost control. It makes me a victim. And this is not who I want to be.

Every issue, belief or assumption is precisely the issue that stands between you and your relationship to another human being; and between you and yourself.

Gita Bellin said this, but I have heard it many times over. Is it true? Am I seeing part of myself in this hurting human being? Why can’t I just let it go? Am I that same, sad girl? Twice, I’ve let myself actually yell back at her, which is very unlike me. In the moment, I truly believe I’m defending my honor…but what is really going on?
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The other side of my anger is light and bright, and I see it as pure motivation to change what I don’t like. For example, my recent promotion came out of what started as anger. Did I stomp around and suffer in silence while continuing to go to work every day for less than I deserved? Well, yes, but not for long. I used that anger as fuel to focus on the prize. Once I had a clear vision of how I was going to change my situation, a calm feeling washed over me and I began working on my goal. The nerves and anger dissipated quickly.
Now what do I do with that emotion when it comes upon me? I’ve read articles that tell me to “sit in my anger.” Why the hell would I want to do that?? I don’t want to stay sweaty and fired up. I want to smile and giggle like I usually do.
Is this “sitting in anger” actually a technique of loving myself in all states of emotion? To sit in anger is to accept it. It is painfully obvious to me that I am very hesitant to sit in any emotion for long. Could I really slow down, stop trying to cut to the front, and appreciate standing in a long line in order to get to know that part of me that gets heated?
Maybe.
What do you do, readers? I welcome your suggestions, your hugs, and a few paper bags to breathe into when my neighbor comes a’shouting again.
 
 
 

Challenging Conversations, Conscious Choices: Part III

I have about a million thoughts as I settle down to write Part III of this series, Challenging Conversations, Conscious Choices. You can read Part I here and Part II here.
This week has been tumultuous. There’s no other way to put it. Partly it’s the election and subsequent reactions to said election; partly it’s about other, more personal things. I’ve seen pictures and stories of odium, examples of great love and selflessness, and all the shades in between. This emotional back and forth has taken a toll on me. I’m exhausted.
When I get so exhausted, I am particularly vulnerable. I have these fears that wash over me, dark feelings that know the perfect time to strike. These thoughts have an incredible ability to make me feel inferior and different. Strangely, when I’m feeling great about myself, I celebrate the Becky who stands out in a crowd, who doesn’t do things because everyone else does, who doesn’t cave to every trend. I think that’s part of what makes me special. So in my heart I know these false feelings of inferiority only prey on me when they know they can.
Thankfully, in my journey I have come to recognize these as passing notions. I use several tools to center myself when I find I’ve been caught up in an emotional cyclone.
The very first thing I say to myself is I control how I react. I can’t control what happens in the world. I can’t even control what happens in my life half the time, but only I can choose to take the world’s baloney and respond by either pulling out two slices of bread, or grabbing the compost bucket and trashing it. I make that conscious choice.
Something else that really helps me is to use one of several new age tarot-like decks that I own. I’m not skilled at reading cards by any means, but it gives me calm to pull one or two from my “Healing with the Fairies” oracle deck, my “Affirmators!” card collection, or my “Native American Animal Medicine Cards.” These things ground me. They give me something tangible to focus on. This evening I meditated on the state of the world, and then pulled a card from my Animal Medicine deck. I pulled the Hummingbird. Two things stuck out at me. First, I was captivated by this line: Hummingbird can give us the medicine to solve the riddle of the contradiction of duality. It intrigued me to read on, because in my meditation before I pulled the card, I had asked the universe to help me make sense of the yin/yang balance of everything that is happening right now. I think everyone can appreciate the struggle of seeing the light in the dark, grudgingly acknowledge the crack that lets the light in (RIP Leonard Cohen). Well, hummingbird is here to help.

“If contrary Hummingbird sings its forlorn song, perhaps you should journey into your personal pain and know that your sorrow is your joy in another reflection.”

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Second, the hummingbird is an enjoyer of life. Again, from the Medicine Card deck:

“If Hummingbird is your personal medicine, you love life and its joys. Your presence brings joy to others. You join people together in relationships which bring out the best in them. You know instinctively where beauty abides and, near or far, you journey to your ideal. You move comfortably within a beautiful environment and help others taste the succulent nectar of life.”

People who know me even the slightest bit will immediately recognize that this is an extremely accurate description. I endeavor to find happiness and laughter wherever I go. I am incredibly blessed to be able to make friends with just about anyone I encounter. Where my life may lack the loving responsibilities of parenthood and the wonderful challenge of a having a lifelong partner as of yet, this provides me the space and time to help those more bogged down to find joy in the most unexpected places. Want a zydeco dance partner? I’m your woman. Looking for someone to join you at a volunteer event? Call me! Want to go for a hike or a run? Heck yeah I do! I have a metaphorical backpack bursting with victories, small and large, of the journey I’m taking in my life, and I love to share them. I’m also the best damn auntie in the world. Children need an adult they can love and trust other than their parents; I adore being that person for many of my friends’ children.
So this is what I choose to know. My capacity to love grows stronger every single day. My heart knows no limits. I can love my neighbor as well as myself unconditionally. I can see the light and the dark as something to grow with, and I will continue to build myself up to be the best Becky I can be.
What do you do when you’re feeling like you’re in the middle of that emotional cyclone and you want to get out? I want you to know, here and now, that if you need to talk to a peer, use one of my decks of cards, or need someone to lighten your day with a laugh or earnest hug, I’m here for you. I love you.

Challenging Conversations, Conscious Choices: Part I

The other day, my coworker, Hannah, and I had a talk about race, which is a pretty frequent topic with us—especially these days. She is black and I am white. I come from the Midwest, where it was mostly black and white when I was growing up (that demographic has changed somewhat since my childhood); she is from DC, where there is a huge variety of cultures and ethnic backgrounds. Being from areas of more prevalent African-American presence, we converse with ease about the current racial discourse.
That day, when a coworker overheard us talking, she put on her “mama bear” voice and tutted loudly enough so we could hear it. The space between cubicles is small and the “walls” are thin to begin with. I can only guess that she felt we were getting a little too deep for a coffee break conversation. Or was it because she felt the topic was inappropriate?
Here in the Pacific Northwest, many people, white people in particular, are afraid to speak when it comes to race relations. There is a legitimate societal reason for this—Oregon is known for its tawdry past (and, unfortunately, some current history as well) with the treatment of African Americans. More than likely, folks around here also don’t have enough experience to talk about it with any sort of confidence. Second, and more realistically, they may think that because we are in a predominantly white area that these problems won’t come here…and so they push those topics under the rug. Unfortunately, many people don’t have that luxury.
So many times in Portland I have heard passive racism. A man I was dating once said, “Stop talking like that!” when I sassed him. What he meant was, stop talking like a sassy, loud black woman. But I wasn’t talking like a sassy black woman. I was talking like Becky. That’s me; it’s how I grew up. The way I speak comes from my environment, yes. Maybe the “norm” of sassiness stereotypically comes from black women—we see this reinforced all the time in the media, which in turn bleeds into the way we think. But passive racism is still racism. (And don’t think this sassy woman didn’t call him out on it!)
This past Monday evening, I went to a Science on Tap talk at Revolution Hall in SE Portland. Dr. Larry Sherman was there, speaking about the neuroscience of prejudice. I was fascinated. Before he got into the actual science of it, he gave a little bit of the history of racism in America. He spoke about the theory of colorblindness that was spread throughout the sixties and seventies, which then trickled down to my generation. Our parents were taught not to observe color at all. If a child asked his mother, “Why does that boy have darker skin?” the mother would hush her child and change the subject instead of explaining that people come in all colors. Thus, this topic turned into a taboo one. It was incredibly refreshing to hear Dr. Sherman talk about this “taboo” topic.
Without a doubt, I proudly seek out people from diverse cultures to talk to. I attend presentations like the one Dr. Sherman gave, as well as pursue events in Portland with multicultural emphasis such as the Whiteness History Month at Portland Community College this past spring. I attend cultural festivals, have delved into Middle Eastern traditions through belly dance, and have even developed my education through salsa dancing! For me, it’s all about learning new things and respecting diversity.
When I talk about race, I use my history. I talk openly about experiences and what my truth is. I am respectful in my dialogue with others. I REFUSE to not talk about it. Impeccability with our words is of the utmost importance. You know what’s not impeccable? Being silent. Being a privileged white woman doesn’t give me glasses that block out all the bad things that are happening to others. And just because I don’t have brown skin doesn’t mean I can’t talk about these people as HUMAN BEINGS—humans who are made of love, just like every other color human on the earth. We are all made of that same love. Sometimes it is hard to remember when we are seeing such horrors in the news.
We are trained for shame.
We are trained to have selective knowledge.
We are trained to protect ourselves first.
But.
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Retrain your brain.
Educate yourself. If you have a question, ASK!
Spread love and be love.
Speak with respect and warm intention. It will get you miles further than speaking with arrogance and ignorance.